concert flyers, drunk drawings, polaroids and messages. There's not a lot of furniture besides the old brown coffee table on the center, surrounded by three sofas, and the carpet, a chaos of collected stains, that used to be grey. All the sound equipment is on the right side, tons of colorful wires spread all over the floor, like the endless piles of books, fanzines and Cd's below the two enormous windows. The air is ablaze with dust, like tiny golden bodies moving to the music.
She has huge green eyes. Like mom's. The exact same color.
“He said you were probably mad at him and asked me to soothe you with some sweet tunes.”
I wait for the rest.
“I'm too old for this, kid. I have my own drama, you feel me?” He grins, handing me the joint. I decline, pointing to the end of the hallway. “I'm nodding off. Go, be old, work”.
Her hair is a shred of night and the most beautiful dimple shows up on her left cheek every time she smiles.
I feel lightheaded, slightly panicky, when I finally sprawl onto the bed. The white sheets smell like lavender, the blinds are partially shut, gleaming weird shades of light on my legs while the cold wind floats the silky curtain against them. This room, with the navy blue walls and the pearl lampshade, was the beginning. Our beginning. Not when we started talking, about trivial stuff, the kind of stuff everyone talks about when they meet for the first time. Not when we realized we had the same taste in all that stuff and he made the DJ play Slint and we yelled like idiots. Not when we bumped into each other in the bathroom and I blushed like a little school girl because he held my hand. Not when he convinced Avon to let me sleep here — I had no money for a cab, my friends were gone, I didn't knew the city well enough to walk back home and was, well, fairly wasted. Not even when he first said goodnight, at the apartment's door, with an itsy-bitsy kiss on both my eyelids. It was here, when he knocked on the door. When I said “Come in,” and he tiptoed to the edge of the bed.
She's a goddess. My goddess. Aurora, the first appearance of light in the sky.
He's standing by the door like a ghost of the beginning. I stare at him while he gently takes off my boots — cigarette dangling from his mouth, messiest bronze hair, eyes laced with ice — trying to find something that proves those words still have some weight, some truth in it. That I didn't become a poster of a goddess. I stare at him while he looks around for an ashtray and comes lay down next to me. “You missed the rest of the show,” He hesitates, looking vacantly at the ceiling “I'm single now.” I should act like a friend, say I'm sorry, even if it's not my fault. I should be his friend, ask if he's okay, even if I know it's not a big deal to him. But my mind is congested with bits and pieces of songs that blame him for the miserable state I'm in; words about being trapped by a guy, chorus of love and bridges of woe reverberating between our soulless corpses. Reverb. Reverb. Reverb. I feel his leg twitch, a sign that he's drifting. My voice sounds small like I'm in the middle of a stadium. There's a hint of a smile around the corners of his lips. I watch the caramel of his eyes melt until he pulls me closer and I space out in my devil's mutant arms.
I fear I won't ever sleep again without her bedroom eyes.
this will never end 'cause I want more
I wake up predictably alone.
All the glass shattering on the pavement outside tells me it's past ten. I sigh, brush back my wispy bangs and get up. There's a yellow post-it note on top of some fresh clothes, it reads pizza in the microwave. I ponder on taking a shower first but then remember I have not eaten anything since that old banana before leaving for school. Fuck it. I change quickly into the skinny jeans and his Christian Death t-shirt, put my boots back on and pray to God for no pineapple. The apartment is quiet, Avon must not have been up here since Satan left. I take a beer bottle from the refrigerator, the five slices of delicious pepperoni, a bunch of napkins and waltz into the living room. Is This It and Room On Fire are both beautifully spread on the red sofa, waiting for me. There's something wrong, I can sense it, despite the beam of my reflection in the window. Being with Satan has the same effect as taking an unhealthy amount of drugs. You might say it's a sign of loving someone — when the presence of that person changes your mood completely and nothing else matters, every dark though, all the complains and hopelessness fades away and you stop worrying and feel safe — but it's like he controls me. I'm never truly calm when he's not with me but I'm also never capable of thinking straight with he's with me. “Fuck,” I whisper. Satan is single. Usually, when this happens, he disappears. I keep seeing him around, we have the same life, and we talk like the good friends we are, but I don't see him in my bed until he's dating again. What he doesn't do is look for me, tell me what happened, put me to sleep, make me wear his t-shirt and listen to The Strokes.
Kim's voice behind me makes me jump, “I came as soon as I heard! And as my hangover cooled off.” Her wet hair looks like blood dripping from the top of her head to her shoulders and she's wearing her moshpit clothes, face clean, no makeup.
From time to time Avon likes to use excuses, like the beginning of a new semester, to throw special parties, with secret acts and surprises and such. Normally it's whoever band is staying at the B&B but, since it's vacant, I have no fucking clue. My fear evolves into that good kind of anxiety at the beginning of the night, that rush you get knowing anything can happen, that anything is possible. My eyes only go back to the records for a split second.
Stewart, one of the nighttime bartenders, brings the wood fence — like parents have in their houses so their children won't climb up the stairs — and greets us with a crooked smile. Radiohead's Lotus Flower twirls around the floating black balloons on stage, dissolving itself in the cloud of white smoke above the crowd, and it's one of those moments time seems to slow down. I want the low half light to eat me, I want to be carved into these walls. I follow Kim to the bar, where Nathan is talking to Helena — his sort of girlfriend — and a bunch of people from university. I wave at them, avoiding contact at any costs, and shout for vodka. Hands cover up my eyes.
“If you know me well enough to touch me you must know I hate shit like this.” I groan. Loud, electric laugh. The song changes, he lets me go and I turn around in a scream. “Holy Joseph! Holy Mary!” They look as stunning as ever, only a little older. “What are you doing here? I mean, I thought you were in Madrid or whatever!” I can't seem to stop yelling, my anxiety reaching an unbearable high. Something is definitely going to happen.
“We were,” Mary says, pressing her lips to mine in a motherly kiss, “But our kid said we had to be here and we were dying for a visit. Where is he anyways? Why isn't he glued to your hip?”
I chuckle, “Probably whoring himself somewhere.”
Avon literally runs to Joseph's lap. They kiss and punch each other with bright eyes.
Mary smiles, “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?”
“How rude of me. Guys, this is Our Lady, betrothed to Joseph, that huge guy over there tickling Avon,”
Kim and Nathan both take a bow, “Pleasure to finally meet you, oh Blessed Mary” Nathan says. My insides are twitching. It can't be a coincidence. I mean, it has to be. They couldn't get here that fast and Satan didn't know Sandra would break it up today. Did he? No. No, today's events can't be connected. I'm being paranoid and delusional and Mary is staring at my t-shirt. “Oh.” She sounds like she has just realized something. No, no, no. Joseph's arm slips around her waist, while Avon goes behind the bar to make some cocktails, and turns his devilish grin at me “Do tell, Deity”.
“Tell what?” I wince.
“Well, have you been good?” He can't stop his satellite head. Still as paranoid. It gives me a weird comfort.
“Excellent. Been thinking of dropping out of school. Take that old offer,” I regret saying it as soon as it comes out of my mouth.
Kim punches my shoulder “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”
I see Jesus at the door and call him, trying to change the focus of
attention. It works.
“My bastard!” Joseph hugs him around Mary. It's an adorable sandwich of my favorite people. I decide it's a coincidence — a happy coincidence.
big wet bottle in my fist, big wet rose in my teeth
We sit on our table and listen to their stories with heartfelt devotion. My friends gasp, clap and laugh so hard there are tears falling into the colorful liquid inside their glasses.
I manage to ignore my anxiety but I also don't talk much. Avon's playing the playlist he made for Mary and Joseph's farewell party and making me sigh at the beginning of every song. At the beginning of every song Mary squeezes my knee. “Never ending day, that's all.” I assure her with a big exhausted smile.
“Well, thank God I'm here then,” Joseph clears his throat dramatically and I can't help but move closer with wide eyes like a little curious child. “I had a band at the time with a couple of friends,” He starts “Just for fun, and we were good but none of us could sing. So we put an add on the window looking for vocals. On the very day this quiet skinny kid, who was always here by himself, approached me saying he wanted to audition for us. We went upstairs, jammed a little, and that was that. He